To Know You (Before Death Will)
by cloudosaurus
Summary: "'When the fuck did you start smoking' Mello asks, as Matt settles back to lean against the headboard, cigarette and lighter in hand. 'Why' he doesn't say, though that is the question he wants answered." They're going to die, soon, and Mello just wants to know a bit more about Matt. [Introspective vignette.]


Moonlight, broken by city smog and the glass walls of scattered high-rises, spills through the window in jagged shards.

It colours Matt's pale skin silver, traces the outline of his lean muscles with formless fingers, the ghost of a forgotten lover.

Mello lays supine, sore limbs splayed across threadbare linen that smells of him and Matt, of sweat and sex. Of home, or at least as much of a home as either of them will ever have.

He watches Matt stretch, watches his thin lips grimace when his fingertips fall just short of the half-empty pack of cigarettes on the bedside table.

Matt sighs and shifts. The blanket protests his movement, leaving Mello with a bare leg, dipping past Matt's ribs to expose his hipbone, a sharp jut rather than a curve.

Mello's eyes trail across the smooth skin, linger at the haphazard red crescents his nails have painted. He wonders when they will fade. If Matt will notice.

"When the fuck did you start smoking?" he asks, as Matt settles back to lean against the headboard, cigarette and lighter in hand.

_Why?_ Mello doesn't say, though that is the question he wants answered.

Matt shrugs. The blurred outline of his bony shoulders rises and dips with a feigned nonchalance, one that Mello wishes were less familiar.

"Dunno, sometime after you left," Matt says, as if that isn't obvious. As if he knows Mello is too proud to ask what he really means.

He lights the cigarette, a graceful motion of practiced fingers. Brings it to his lips.

It glows ruby-red in the dark, a flare of smudged scarlet that mingles with the moonlight to cast soft amber shadows across the planes of Matt's face.

"Why? Does it matter?" he asks in return, letting his head tip back as he takes a long drag.

Mello watches the smoke rise, frail curls of haze that disappear into the cracked ceiling where moonlight can't reach. A shape that dissipates into nothingness as soon as it's given form.

He rolls his eyes so hard they hurt, even though Matt isn't looking.

"You smell fucking terrible," he accuses. Matt hums.

"Taste even worse," Mello adds, through lips bloodstained and bruised by rough kisses.

Matt quirks a brow, the shadow of a smirk flickers across his mouth.

"Oh yeah?" he says, turning Mello's way to pin him with eyes that see too much. "Sure doesn't stop you from riding my cock like a needy bitch."

Matt's words are the comfortable kind of coarse, familiar enough that Mello acts more offended than he feels.

Besides, there is fondness in Matt's gaze, in the warm rasp of his voice that soothes Mello. Makes him feel needed as much as he is needy.

Mello stifles a yawn as he flips Matt the finger and lets his cheek smush against the worn fabric of his pillow.

"You're just a hellufa lucky motherfucker, Matty," he retorts without heat.

Mello's gaze is half-lidded as he traces the cinnamon splash of freckles that kiss Matt's skin with more permanence than his own mouth ever can.

He paints invisible constellations, idly wonders what they know about Matt that he does not, and waits for a sly-smiled reply, the kind that Matt always has at the ready.

Instead, Matt's fingers, slender and cool, find their way to the nape of Mello's neck. They linger, tangled in soft hair, tracing meaningless circles across sensitive skin.

Matt's hand drifts to Mello's cheek, a feather-light caress that ends with a tilt to his chin and the tip of a thumb ghosted over kiss-swollen lips.

Mello's mouth is parted when he meets Matt's gaze.

The cigarette dangles almost forgotten from his lips, casting shadows of whispered smoke that meld into black.

Fire dances in Matt's eyes, bright, flickering flames that seem to swell until they are bottomless pools of liquid gold that both burn and drown.

Matt looks at Mello like he's an angel made human, spilling silent love, tender feelings that neither of them will ever voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," he whispers into the still night.

And goosebumps cloak Mello's body even though he's warm and sticky with a sheen of sweat.

A flush colours Mello's face crimson. But it stings, a slap of shame.

Because fuck, if that couldn't be further from the truth. He's going to kill Matt before those stupid cigarettes ever get a chance to, and they both know it.

Mello presses his face into the pillow. He listens to the sound of passing cars. To the sound of their existence.

It's just their breaths, for a few heartbeats, Matt's steadier than his own, that break the room's quiet and the secrets it keeps.

Then Mello sighs and rolls onto his side. He sits up, leaning into Matt's warmth, draping himself across his skinny shoulders as if they're the only support he's got.

It's true enough, anyway.

"Let me try, Matty," he demands, glancing at the cigarette balanced between Matt's fingers.

Matt's eyes widen.

"Hell no," he says, and leans back, taking away the cigarette and the heat of his body along with it.

Mello glares. He scrambles for purchase but it isn't his to claim, and Matt's eyes twinkle with mirth and dizzy laughter erupts from his throat like bubbles in champagne.

When Mello curses, it's through lips half-curved into a smile. Still, he rakes his nails across the plane of Matt's chest, pauses before pinching a rosebud nipple. Hard.

Matt trembles and squeaks, but the cigarette doesn't come any closer.

"What the fuck, Mel," he gasps, slapping at Mello's hand to wrap his own around his chest. "Thought you didn't like 'em."

Mello flicks Matt's forehead instead.

"I don't. Now give it here."

He extends his palm and for a moment, Matt's eyes are too bright, like scalding sunlight. A gaze that has seen Mello take so much without stopping to ask. Without daring to wait.

Mello's outstretched fingertips quiver. A blush blossoms in pale rose across his cheeks. He ducks his chin, tries to hide.

Matt pulls him close. His lips, chapped but soft, press a chaste kiss to the corner of Mello's mouth. It seems to linger, a fleeting touch that can't be erased.

"Here," Matt murmurs.

Their hands brush, and then it's just Matt's cigarette in Mello's grip, as familiar as it is foreign.

Mello feels the weight of Matt's gaze. He twirls the cigarette before bringing it to his mouth, and wonders what Matt was thinking of the first time he smoked.


End file.
